Was such a prayer ever offered in vain or unanswered by Him who hath said, "If ye ask anything according to my will, I will do it. Ask, and ye shall receive"?



CHAPTER IX.

CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST.

"Christmas, happy Christmas, Sweet herald of good-will, With holy songs of glory, Brings holy gladness still."

Summer had long passed, autumn tints had faded, and the fallen leaves lay thick in the Forest.

For days a strong wind had blown, bending the high trees under its influence, and here and there rooting up the dark pines and laying them low. Through the night of which we are going to write, a heavy fall of snow had covered all around with a thick mantle of pure white. It weighed down the branches of the trees in the Forest, and rested on the piles of wood which lay ready cut to be carted off to be sold for fuel in the neighbouring towns. The roll of wheels, as the heavily-laden wagons passed, was heard no more. The song of the birds had ceased, though the print of their claws was to be seen on the snow. All was quiet. The silence of nature seemed to rest on the hearts of the dwellers in the Forest. In vain Elsie heaped on the wood; still the stove gave out little heat. She busied herself in the little room, but a weight seemed to be on her spirit, and she glanced from time to time uneasily at Frida, who sat listlessly knitting beside the stove.

"Art ill, Frida?" she said at last. "All this morning hast thou sat there with that knitting on thy lap, and scarce worked a round at it. And your violin—why, Frida, you have not played on it for weeks, and even Hans notices it; and Wilhelm says to me no longer ago than this morning, 'Why, wife, what ails our woodland child? The spirit has all left her, and she looks white and tired-like.'"

Frida, thus addressed, rose quickly from her seat, a blush, perchance of shame, colouring her cheeks.

"O Mutter," she said, "I know I am lazy; but it is not because I am ill, only I keep thinking and wondering and—There! I know I'm wrong, only, Elsie dear, Mutter Elsie, I do want to know if any of my own people are alive, and where they live. I have felt like this ever since I was at Baden-Baden; and I have not heard from Adeline Stanford for such a long time, and I suppose, though she was so kind, she has forgotten me; and Miss Drechsler has left Dringenstadt for months; and, O Mutter, forgive me, and believe that I am not ungrateful for all that you and Wilhelm and the kind people in the Dorf have done for me. Only, only—" And the poor girl laid her head on Elsie's shoulder and cried long and bitterly.

Elsie was much moved, she did so love the bright, fairy-like girl who had been the means of letting in the light of the gospel to her dark heart.

"Armes Kind" (poor child), she said, soothing her as tenderly as she would have done her own blind Anna, had she been alive and in trouble, "I understand it all, dear." (And her kind woman heart had taken it all in.) "It is just like the little bird taken from its mother's nest, and put into a strange one, longing to be back amongst its like again, and content nowhere else. But, Frida, dost thou not remember that we read in the little brown book that our Lord hath said, 'Lo, I am with you alway'? Isn't that enough for you? No place can be very desolate, can it, if He be there?"

In a moment after Elsie said these words, Frida raised her head and dried her eyes.

Had she been forgetting, she asked herself, whose young servant she was? Was it right in a child of God to be discontented with her lot, and to forget the high privilege that God had given her in allowing her to read His Word to the poor people in the Forest?

"I must throw off this discontented spirit," she said to herself; and turning to Elsie she told her how sorry she was for the way in which she had acted, adding, "But with God's help I will be better now."

Frida was no perfect character, and, truth to tell, ever since her return from Baden-Baden, a sense of the incongruity of her circumstances had crept upon her. The tasteful surroundings, the cultured conversation, the musical evenings, the refinement of all around, had enchanted the young girl, and the humble lot and homely ways of her Forest friends had on her return to them stood out in striking contrast. And, alas! for the time being she refused to see in all these things the guiding hand of God. But after the day we have written of, things went better. The girl strove to conquer her discontent, and in God's strength she overcame, and her friends in the Forest had once more the pleasure of seeing her bright smile and hearing her sweet voice in song.

Johann Schmidt had fallen asleep in Jesus with the words of Holy Scripture on his lips, blessing the "wood-cutters' pet," as he called her, for having, through the reading of God's Word, led him to Jesus. But though sickness had left the Forest, the severe cold and deep snow were very trying to the health of all the dwellers in it, and the winter nights were long and dreary.

One day in December, Wilhelm Hoerstel had business in Dringenstadt, and on his return home he gave Frida two letters which he had found lying at the post-office for her. They proved, to Frida's great delight, to be from her two friends Miss Drechsler and Adeline Stanford.

Miss Drechsler's ran thus:—

"DEAR FRIDA,—I have been thinking very specially of you and your friends in the Forest, now that the cold winter days have come, and the snow, I doubt not, is lying thick on the trees and ground. Knowing how interested you are, dear, in all your kind friends there, I have thought how nice it would be for you, if Elsie and Wilhelm consent, to have a Christmas-tree for a few of your friends; and in order to carry this out, I enclose a money order to the amount of L2, and leave it to you and Elsie to spend it to the best of your power.

"I am also going to write to Herr Steiger to send, addressed to you, ten pounds of tea, which I trust you to give from me to each of the householders—nine in number, I think—in the little Dorf, retaining one for your friends the Hoerstels. Will you, dear Frida, be my almoner and do my business for me? I often think of and pray for you, and I know you do not forget me. I fear I will not be able to return to Dringenstadt till the month of May, as my sister is still very ill, and I feel I am of use to her.—Your affectionate friend. M. DRECHSLER."

"Oh, isn't it good? isn't it charming?" said Frida, jumping about the room in her glee. "Mayn't we have the tree, Mutter? And will you not some day soon come with me to Dringenstadt and choose the things for it? Oh, I wish Hans were here, that I might tell him all about it! See, I have not yet opened Adeline's letter; it is so long since I heard from her. I wonder where they are living now. Oh, the letter is from Rome."

Then in silence she read on. Elsie, who was watching her, saw that as she read on her cheeks coloured and her eyes sparkled with some joyful emotion.

She rose suddenly, and going up to Elsie she said, "O Mutter, was denken Sie? [what do you think?]. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford enclose a few lines saying they would like so much that I should, with your consent, spend some months with them at Cannes in the Riviera, as a companion to Adeline; and if you and Miss Drechsler agree to the plan, that I would accompany friends of theirs from Baden-Baden who propose to go to Cannes about the middle of January. And, Mutter," continued the girl, "they say all my expenses will be paid, and that I shall have Adeline's masters for music and languages, and be treated as if I were their daughter."

Elsie looked up with tears in her eyes. "Well, Frida dear," she said, "it does seem a good thing for you, and right glad I am about it for your sake; but, oh, we will miss you sorely. But there! the dear Lord has told us in the book not to think only of ourselves, and I am sure that He is directing your way. Of course I'll speak to Wilhelm about it, for he has so much sense; but I don't believe he'll stand in your way."

Frida, overcome with excitement, and almost bewildered with the prospect before her, had yet a heart full of sorrow at the thought of leaving the friends who had helped her in her time of need; and in broken words she told Elsie so, clinging to her as she spoke.

Matters were soon arranged. Elsie and Wilhelm heartily agreed that Frida should accept Sir Richard and Lady Stanford's invitation. They only waited till an answer could be got from Miss Drechsler regarding the plan. And when that came, full of thankfulness for God's kindness in thus guiding her path, a letter of acceptance was at once dispatched to Cannes, and the child of the Forest only remained with her friends till the new year was a fortnight old.

In the meantime, whilst snow lay thick around, Christmas-eve came on, and Frida and Elsie were busy preparing the tree. Of the true Christmas joy many in the Forest knew nothing, but in some hearts a glimmer at least of its true meaning was dawning, and a few of the wood-cutters loved to gather together and hear Frida read the story of the angelic hosts on the plain of Bethlehem singing of peace and good-will to men, because that night a Babe, who was Christ the Lord, was born in a manger. How much they understood of the full significance of the story we know not, but we do know God's word never returns to Him void.

The tree was ready at last. Elsie, Frida, and Hans had worked busily at it for days, Miss Drechsler's money had gone a long way, and now those who had prepared it thought there never had been such a beautiful tree. True, every child in the Forest had had on former occasions a tree of their own at Christmas time—none so poor but some small twig was lit up, though the lights might be few; but this one, ah, that was a different matter—no such tree as this had ever been seen in the Forest before.

"Look, Hans," said Frida; "is not that doll like a little queen? And only see that little wooden cart and horse; won't that delight some of the children in the Dorf?—And, Mutter, we must hang up that warm hood for Frau Schenk, poor woman; and now here are the warm cuffs for the men, and a lovely pair for Wilhelm.—And, O Hans, we will not tell you what you are to have; nor you either, Mutter. No, no, you will never guess. I bought them myself."

And so, amid chattering and laughing, the tree got on and was finished; and all I am going to say about it is that for long years afterwards that particular Christmas-tree was remembered and spoken of, and in far other scenes—in crowded drawing-rooms filled with gaily-dressed children and grown-up people—Frida's eyes would fill as she thought of the joy that Christmas-tree had given to the dwellers in the Forest, both young and old. Ere that memorable night ended, Frida and Hans, who had prepared a surprise for every one, brought out their violins, and sang together in German a Christmas carol; and as the assembled party went quietly home through the snow-carpeted Forest, a holy influence seemed around them, as if the song of the angels echoed through the air, "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men."



CHAPTER X.

HARCOURT MANOR.

"Shall not long-suffering in thee be wrought To mirror back His own? His gentleness shall mellow every thought And look and tone."

Three years and a half have passed since the Christmas-eve we have written of, and the golden light of a summer day was falling on the earth and touching the flowers in a lovely garden belonging to the old manor-house of Harcourt, in the county of Gloucester in England.

In the lawn-tennis court, which was near the garden, preparations were making for a game. Young men in flannels and girls in light dresses were passing to and fro arranging the racquets and tightening the nets, some gathering the balls together and trying them ere the other players should arrive. It was a pleasant scene. Birds twittered out and in the ivy and rose covered walls of the old English manor-house, and the blithe laughter of the young people blended with the melodious singing of the choristers around.

The company was assembling quickly, kind words were passing amongst friends, when there appeared on the scene an elderly lady of great elegance and beauty, to whom all turned with respectful greeting, and a hush came over all.

Not that there was anything stern or severe in the lady's appearance to cause the hush, for a look of calmness and great sweetness was in her countenance, but through it there was also an appearance of sadness that touched every heart, and although it would not silence any true young joy, had certainly the effect of quieting anything boisterous or rude.

The "gentle lady" of Harcourt Manor was the name Mrs. Willoughby had gone by for some years. It was pretty well known that a deep sorrow had fallen upon her whilst still in the prime of life; and those there were who said they could recall a time when, instead of that look of calm peace and chastened sorrow, there were visible on her face only haughty pride and fiery temper.

It was hard to believe that that had ever been the case; but if so, it was but one of many instances in which God's declaration proved true, that though "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous, nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness."

Mr. Willoughby, a man older by some years than his wife, was a man who had long been more feared than beloved; and the heavy trial, which had affected him no less than his wife, had apparently hardened instead of softening his whole nature, though a severe illness had greatly mitigated, it was thought, some of his sternness.

The party of which we are writing was given in honour of the return from abroad of the heir of the manor, a distant relation of the Willoughbys, Mr. Reginald Gower, whom we have written of before. For five years he had been living abroad, and had returned only a month ago to the house of his widowed mother, the Hon. Mrs. Gower of Lilyfield, a small though pretty property adjoining Harcourt Manor.

Just as Mrs. Willoughby entered the grounds, Reginald and his mother did so also, although by a different way, and a few minutes passed ere they met.

The young man walked eagerly up to the hostess, a smile of real pleasure lighting up his handsome face at the sight of the lady he really loved, and who had from his boyish days been a kind friend to him. But as he greeted her, the look of sadness on her countenance struck him, and some secret thought sent a pang through him, and for the moment blanched his cheek. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he had it in his power, by the utterance of a few words, to dispel that look of deep sadness from the face of one of the dearest friends, next to his mother, whom he possessed?

"Very glad to see you back again, Reginald," said Mrs. Willoughby. "But surely the southern skies have blanched rather than bronzed your cheeks. You were not wont to be so pale, Reggie. Ay, there you are more like your old self" (as a flush of colour spread over his face once more). "We hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for your dear mother has been worrying about your long absence.—Is it not so, Laura?" she said, addressing herself to Mrs. Gower, who now stood beside them.

"Yes, indeed," was the reply; "I am thankful to have my boy home again. Lilyfield is a dull place without him."

"Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in it." And as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see that her eyes were full of tears.

But Reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying, "Farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there.

But he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were heard from time to time such as, "Why, Reginald, have you forgotten how to play tennis?" "Oh, look out, Gower; you are spoiling the game! It was a shame to miss that ball."

Thus admonished, Reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts, concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. But no sooner was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face and figure of the beautiful foundling of the Black Forest, with her strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle friend Mrs. Willoughby.

Oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out the remembrance of her and be once more the light-hearted man he had been ere he heard her story from Sir Richard Stanford!

He had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good principles, his high-toned soul ("True," he said to himself, "I never set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint like my noble mother and my friend Mrs. Willoughby") that he staggered as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. Dishonest, cruel, unjust—he, Reginald Gower; was it possible? Ah! his self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had both been put to the test and found wanting.

"Well, Reggie, had you a pleasant time at the manor to-day?" said his mother to him as they sat together at their late dinner.

"Oh, it was well enough," was the reply; but it was not spoken in his usual hearty tone, and his mother observed it, and also the unsatisfied look which crossed his face, and she wondered what had vexed him.

A silence succeeded, broken at last by Reginald.

"Mother," he said, "what is it that has deepened that look of sadness in Mrs. Willoughby's face since I last saw her? And tell me, is the story about their daughter being disinherited true? And is it certain that she is dead, and that no child (for I think it is said she married) survives her? If that were the case, and the child should turn up and be received, it would be awkward for me and my prospects, mother."

"Reginald," Mrs. Gower replied, for she had heard his words with astonishment, "if I thought that there was the least chance that either Mrs. Willoughby's daughter or any child of hers were alive, I would rejoice with all my heart, and do all I could to bring about a reconciliation, even though it were to leave you, my loved son, a penniless beggar. And so I am sure would you."

A flush of crimson rose to Reginald's brow at these words. Then his mother believed him to be all that he had thought himself, and little suspected what he really was. But then, supposing he divulged his secret, what about debts which he had contracted, and extravagant habits which he had formed? No! he would begin and save, retrench his expenses, and if possible get these debts paid off; and then he might see his way to speak of the girl in the Black Forest, if she was still to be found.

So once more Reginald Gower silenced the voice of conscience with, "At a more convenient time," and abruptly changing the subject, began to speak of his foreign experiences, of the beauty of Italian skies, art, and scenery; and the conversation about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter passed from his mother's mind, and she became absorbed in her son's descriptions of the places he had visited. And as she looked at his handsome animated face, was it any wonder that with a mother's partiality she thought how favoured she was in the possession of such a child? Only—and here she sighed—ah, if only she were sure that this cherished son were a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and that the Word of God, so precious to her own soul, were indeed a light to his feet and a lamp to his path!

That evening another couple were seated also at their dinner-table, and a different conversation was being held. The master of Harcourt Manor sat at the foot of the table, opposite his gentle wife; but a troubled look was on his face, brought there very much by the thought that he noticed an extra shade both of weariness and sadness on the face of his wife. What could he do to dissipate it? he was asking himself. Anything, except speak the word which he was well aware would have the desired effect, and, were she still alive, restore to her mother's arms the child for whom she pined; but not yet was the strong self-will so broken down that those words could be spoken by him, not yet had he so felt the need of forgiveness for his own soul that he could forgive as he hoped to be forgiven.

Did not his duty as a parent, and his duty towards other parents of his own rank in life, call upon him to make a strong stand, and visit with his righteous indignation such a sin as that of his only child and heiress marrying a man, however good, upright, and highly educated he might be, who yet was beneath her in station (although he denied that fact), and unable to keep her in the comfort and luxury to which she had been accustomed?

"No, no, noblesse oblige;" and rather than forgive such a sin, he would blight his own life and break the heart of the wife he adored. Such was the state of mind in which the master of Harcourt Manor had remained since the sad night when his only child had gone off to be married at a neighbouring church to the young musician Heinz. But some months before Reginald Gower's return from abroad, during a severe illness which had brought him to the borderland, Mr. Willoughby was aroused to a dawning sense of his own sinfulness and need of pardon, which had, almost unconsciously to himself, a softening effect on his mind.

His wife was the first to break the silence at the dinner-table. "Has not Reginald Gower grown more manly and older-looking since we saw him last?" she said, addressing her husband.

A shade came over his face as he answered somewhat testily, "Oh, I think he looks well enough! Of course five years must have made him look older. But Reginald never was the favourite with me that he is with you, wife; a self-indulgent lad he always seems to me to be."

"Well, but surely, husband" (once she always called him father, but that was years ago now), "he is a good son, and kind to his mother."

"Well, well, I am glad to hear it. But surely we have some more interesting subject to discuss than Reginald Gower."

Mrs. Willoughby sighed. Well she knew that many a time she had a conflict in her own heart to think well of the lad who was to succeed to the beautiful estates that by right belonged to their own child.

Dinner over, she sought the quiet of her own boudoir, a room specially endeared to her by the many sweet memories of the hours that she and her loved daughter had spent together there.

The day had been a trying one to Mrs. Willoughby. Not often nowadays had they parties at Harcourt Manor, and she was tired in mind and body, and glad to be a few minutes alone with her God. She sat for a few minutes lost in thought; then rising she opened a drawer, and took from it the case which contained the miniature of a beautiful girl, on which she gazed long and lovingly. The likeness was that of the daughter she had loved so dearly, and of whose very existence she was now in doubt. Oh to see or hear of her once more! Poor mother, how her heart yearned for her loved one! Only one could comfort her, and that was the God she had learned to love. She put down the picture and opened a little brown book, the very fac-simile of the one which little Frida possessed, and which God had used and blessed in the Black Forest. Turning to the Hundred and third Psalm, she read the words, well underlined, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." Then turning to the Gospel of Matthew, she read Christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! Ere she closed the book, Mrs. Willoughby read the fourth verse of the Thirty-seventh Psalm: "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." Then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly Father, and rose quieted in spirit.

Ere she put away the little brown book she looked at it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two Bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in German, the other in English. The German Bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the English one to her mother. On the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, "To my much-loved mother, from Hilda." Ah, where was that daughter now? And if she still possessed the little brown German Bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her English Bible? Then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room.



CHAPTER XI.

IN THE RIVIERA.

"My God, I thank Thee who hast made The earth so bright, So full of splendour and of joy, Beauty, and light; So many glorious things are here, Noble and right."

More than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the Black Forest. April sunshine was lighting up the grey olive woods and glistening on the dark-green glossy leaves of the orange-trees at Cannes, and playing on the deep-blue waters of the Mediterranean there.

Some of these beams fell also round the heads of two young girls as they sat under the shade of a palm tree in a lovely garden there belonging to the Villa des Rosiers, where they were living. A lovely scene was before their eyes. In front of them, like gems in the deep-blue sea, were the isles of St. Marguerite and St. Honorat, and to the west were the beautiful Estrelle Mountains. Around them bloomed masses of lovely roses, and the little yellow and white noisettes climbed up the various tall trees in the garden, and flung their wealth of flowers in festoons down to the ground.

The two girls gazed in silence for some minutes at the lovely scene. Then the youngest of the two, a dark-eyed, golden-haired girl, said, addressing her companion, "Is it not lovely, Adeline? The whole of nature seems to be rejoicing."

"Yes, indeed," answered her companion. "And I am sure I owe much to the glorious sunshine, for, by God's blessing, it has been the means of restoring my health. I am quite well now, and the doctor says I may safely winter in England next season. Won't it be delightful, Frida, to be back in dear old England once more?"

"Ah! you forget, Adeline, that I do not know the land of your birth, though I quite believe it was my mother's birthplace as well, and perhaps my own also. I do often long to see it, and fancy if I were once there I might meet with some of my own people. But then again, how could I, on a mere chance, make up my mind to leave my kind friends in the Forest entirely? It is long since I have heard of them. Do you know that I left my little Bible with them? I had taught Elsie and Hans to read it, and they promised to go on reading it aloud as I used to do to the wood-cutters on Sunday evenings. It is wonderful how God's Word has been blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind your friend Herr Mueller has been about Hans? He got him to go twice a week to Dringenstadt, and has been teaching him to play on the violin. He says he has real talent, and if only he had the means to obtain a good musical education, would become a really celebrated performer."

"Yes, Frida," replied her friend; "I know more about all that than you do. Herr Mueller has been most kind, and taken much trouble with Hans; but it is my own dear, kind father who pays him for so doing, and tells no one, for he says we should 'not let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.'"

A silence succeeded, broken only by the noise of the small waves of the tideless Mediterranean at their feet.

Then Frida spoke, a look of firm resolution on her face. "Adeline," she said, "your father and mother are the kindest of people, and God will reward them. This morning they told me that they mean to leave this place in a couple of weeks, and return by slow stages to England; and they asked me to accompany you there, and remain with you as your friend and companion as long as I liked. Oh, it was a kind offer, kindly put; but, Adeline, I have refused it."

"Refused it, Frida! what do you mean?" said her friend, starting up. "You don't mean to say you are not coming home with us! Are you going back to live with those people in the little hut in the Forest, after all your education and your love of refined surroundings? Frida, it is not possible; it would be black ingratitude!"

"O Adeline, hush! do not pain me by such words. Listen to me, dear, for one moment, and do not make it more difficult for me to do the right thing. Your parents have given their consent to my plan, and even said they think it is the right plan for me."

"Well, let me hear," said Adeline, in a displeased tone, "what it is you propose to do. Is it your intention really to go back to the Forest and live there?"

"Not exactly that, Adeline. I have thought it all over some time ago, and only waited till your parents spoke to me of going to England to tell them what I thought was my duty to do. And this is what has been settled. If you still wish it, as your parents do, I shall remain here till you leave, and accompany you back to Baden-Baden, where your parents tell me they intend going for a week or so. From there I propose returning to my friends in the Forest, not to live there any more, but for a few days' visit to see them who are so dear to me. After that I shall live with Miss Drechsler. Her sister is dead, and has left her a good deal of money, and she is now going to settle in Dringenstadt, and have a paid companion to reside with her. And, Adeline, that situation she has offered to me."

"Well, Frida," interrupted her friend, "did not I wish you to be my companion? and would not my parents have given you any sum you required?"

"O Adeline dear, hush, I pray of you, and let me finish my story. You know that it is not a question of money; but you are so well, dear, that you do not really need me. You have your parents and friends. Miss Drechsler is alone, and I can never forget all she has done for me. Then I am young, and cannot consent to remain in dependence even on such dear friends as you are. I intend giving lessons in violin-playing at Dringenstadt and its neighbourhood. Miss Drechsler writes she can secure me two or three pupils at once, and she is sure I will soon get more, as the new villas near Dringenstadt are now finished, and have been taken by families. And then, Adeline, living there I shall be near enough to the Forest to carry on the work which I believe God has called me to, in reading to these poor people the words of life. And at Miss Drechsler's I mean to live, as long as she requires me, unless I am claimed by any of my own relations, which, as you know, is a most unlikely event. I believe I am right in the decision I have come to. So once again I pray of you, dear Adeline, not to dissuade me from my purpose. You know how much I love you all, and how grateful I am to you. Only think how ignorant I would have been had not your dear parents taken me and got me educated, as if I had been their own child. Oh, I can never, never forget all that you have done for me!"

Adeline's warm heart was touched, and her good sense convinced her, in spite of her dislike to the plan, that her friend was right. "Well, Frida," she said, after a minute or two's silence, "if you feel it really to be your duty, I can say no more. Only you must promise me that you will come sometimes, say in the summer time, and visit us."

Frida smiled. "That would be charming, Adeline; but we will not speak of that at present. Only say you really think I am right in the matter. I have not forgotten to ask God's guidance, and you know it is written in the Word of God which we both love so well, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' But come; we must go now and get ready, for we are to go to-day to the Cap d'Antibes."

And in the delights of that lovely drive, and in strolling amongst the rocks honeycombed till they look almost like lacework, the two friends forgot the evils of the impending separation.

In the meantime Frida was warmly remembered by her friends in the Forest, and their joy when they heard that she was once more coming to live near them was unbounded.

"Ah," said Elsie, as she bent her head over a sweet little year-old girl whom she held on her lap, "now I shall be able to show her my little Gretchen, and she will, I know, sing to her some of the sweet hymns she used to sing to my little Annchen, and she will read to us again, Wilhelm, out of the little brown book which I have taken great care of for her."

"Ay," put in Hans, "and Muetterchen, she will bring her violin, and she and I will play together some of the music you and father love; and she will, I know, be glad to hear that through Sir Richard Stanford and Herr Mueller I am to become a pupil in the Conservatorium of Leipsic. I can hardly believe it is true."

"Ay, my son, thou art a lucky one, and ye owe it all to Frida herself. Was it not she who told Sir Richard about your love of music, and got Herr Mueller to promise to hear you play? Ah! under the good God we owe much to the 'woodland child.'"

And so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at Cannes and Grasse, Frida found herself once more an inmate of Miss Drechsler's pretty little house at Dringenstadt, and able every now and then to visit and help her friends in the Forest.

"Ah, Muetterchen," she said as she threw herself into Elsie's arms, "here I am again your foundling child, come to live near you, and so glad to see you all once more.—And Hans, why, Hans, you look a man now; and oh, I am so pleased you are to go to Leipsic! You must bring down your violin now and then to Miss Drechsler's, and let us play together. I am sure you will be a great musician some day, Hans."

The young man (for such he now was) looked much gratified at his friend's hopeful words, and said, "If I do turn that, I shall owe it all to you, Frida."

But the girl interrupted his speech by saying, "Now, Mutter, let me see little Gretchen;" and next minute she was stooping over the bed where lay the sleeping child—the very bed whence the spirit of the blind child whom she had loved so dearly had taken its flight to the heavenly land.

"What a darling she looks, Elsie! Oh, I am glad God has sent you this little treasure! She will cheer you when Hans has gone away and her father is all day in the Forest."

"Yes," said Elsie, "she is indeed a gift from God; and you, Frida, must teach her, as you taught her parents and Anna, the 'way of life.' And O Frida, thou must go down to the Dorf, for all the people there are so eager to see thee once more. And now that thou hast grown a young lady, they all wonder if thou still beest like the woodland child, and wilt care about the like of them, or if perchance thou hast forgotten them."

"Forgotten them! O Elsie, how could they think so? Could I ever forget how they and you gave of their little pittance to maintain the child found in the Black Forest, and how you all lavished kindness on her who had neither father nor mother to care for her? I must go at once and ask them what I have done that they should have thought so badly of me even for a minute. Don't you know, Mutter, that I have given up the going to England to live with Miss Drechsler at Dringenstadt, in order that I may often see my dear friends in the Forest; and that shall be my life-work, unless"—and here the girl looked sad—"any of my own friends find me out and claim me."

"Hast had any clue to them, Frida?" asked Elsie.

"Alas, no!" said the girl, "none whatever; and yet I have seen a great number of people during these few years. And I have always worn my necklace, which, being such a peculiar one, might have attracted attention and led to the discovery of my parentage; but except one Englishman, whom I met at the Stanfords', who said I reminded him of some one whom he had seen, there has been nothing to lead me to suppose that any one thought of me except as a friend of the Stanfords. But, Elsie, though I am not discontented, still at times there is the old yearning for my own people. But God knows best, and I am not going to waste my life in useless longings. I have got five pupils in Dringenstadt already, and several more applications, and next week I begin my life-work as a teacher of the violin.—Don't you envy me, Hans?"

"That is what I do, Fraeulein Frida," said Hans. Somehow as he looked at the fair young lady the old familiar name of Frida seemed too familiar to use. Frida turned quickly round on him as he uttered the word "Fraeulein."

"Why, Hans—for I will not call thee Herr—to whom did you speak? There is no Fraeulein here—just your old sister playmate Frida; never let me hear you address me again by such a title. Art thou not my brother Hans, the son of my dear friends Elsie and Wilhelm?" and a merry laugh scattered Hans's new-born shyness.

And to the end of their lives Frida and Hans remained as brother and sister, each rejoicing in the success of the other in life; and in after years they had many a laugh over the day that Hans began to think that he must call his sister friend, the companion of his childhood, his instructor in much that was good, by the stiff title of Fraeulein Frida.

Ere Frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked God for past mercies, and it was Elsie's voice that in faltering accents prayed that Frida might still be used in the Forest to lead many to the knowledge of Christ Jesus through the reading of the Word of God.



CHAPTER XII.

IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS.

"There are lonely hearts to cherish While the days are going by, There are weary souls who perish While the days are going by. If a smile we can renew, As our journey we pursue, Oh, the good we all may do While the days are passing by!"

The London season was at its height, but though the pure sunshine was glistening on mountain-top and green meadow, and beginning to tinge the corn-fields with a golden tint in country places, where peace and quietness seemed to reign, and leafy greenery called on every one who loved nature to come and enjoy it in its summer flush of beauty, yet the great city was still filled not only by those who could not leave its crowded streets, but by hundreds who lingered there in the mere pursuit of pleasure, for whom the beauties of nature had no charm.

On one peculiarly fine day a group of people were gathered together in the drawing-room of a splendid mansion in one of the West End crescents.

There was evidently going to be a riding party, for horses held by grooms stood at the door, and two at least of the ladies in the drawing-room wore riding habits.

In conversation with one of these—a pretty fair-haired girl of some twenty years—stood Reginald Gower. "Will your sister ride to-day, do you know?" he was asking, in somewhat anxious tones.

"Gertie? No, I think not; she has a particular engagement this morning. I don't exactly know what it is, but she will not be one of the party. So, Mr. Gower, you and Arthur Barton will have to put up with only the company of myself and Cousin Mary."

Ere the young man could reply, the door opened, and a girl dressed in a dark summer serge and light straw hat entered. She carried a small leather bag in her hand, and was greeted with exclamations of dismay from more than one of the party.

"Are you going slumming to-day, Gertie? What a shame! And the sun so bright, and yet a cool air—just the most delightful sort of day for a ride; and we are going to call on your favourite aunt Mary."

"Give her my love then," replied Gertie, "and tell her I hope to ride over one of those days and see her. No, I cannot possibly go with you to-day, as I have an engagement elsewhere."

"An engagement in the slums! Who ever heard of such a thing?" said her sister and cousin together.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Lily dear, and my cousin also; but I had promised two or three poor people to see them to-day before I knew anything of this riding party, and I am sure I am right not to disappoint them.—And, Mr. Gower, I know your mother at least would not think I was wrong."

"That is true, Miss Warden. My mother thinks far more about giving pleasure to the poor than she does about the wishes of the rich. But could you not defer this slumming business till to-morrow, and give us the pleasure of your company to-day?"

But she shook her head, and assuring them they would get on very well without her, she turned to leave the room, saying as she did so, "O Lily, do find out if it is true that Aunt Mary's old governess, Miss Drechsler, of whom we have all heard so much, is coming to visit her soon, and is bringing with her the young violinist who lives with her, and who people say was a child found in the Black Forest. I do so want to know all about her. We must try and get her to come here some evening, and ask Dr. Heinz, who plays so well upon the violin, to meet her; and you also, Mr. Gower, for I know you dearly love music."

Had Lily not turned quickly away just then, she would have noticed the uneasy, startled look which crossed Reginald Gower's face at her words. Was this woodland child, he asked himself, to be always crossing his path?

He had hoped he had heard the last of her long ago, and some years had elapsed since he had seen her. The circumstance of the likeness to the picture in Harcourt Manor, and the coincidence of the necklace, had almost (but as he had not yet quite killed his conscience), not altogether, escaped his memory; and still, as at times he marked the increasing sadness on Mrs. Willoughby's countenance, he felt a sharp pang of remorse; and since he had known and begun to care for Gertie Warden, her devoted Christian life and clear, truthful spirit were making him more conscious than ever of his own selfishness and sin.

True, he had no reason to suppose that she cared for him in any way except as the son of his mother, whom she dearly loved, but his vanity whispered that perhaps in time she might do so; and if that came to pass, and he found that his love was returned, then he would tell her all, and consult with her as to what course he should follow.

Lately, however, he had become uneasy at the many references which Lily Warden made to a Dr. Heinz, who seemed to be often about the house, and of whom both sisters spoke in high terms as a Christian man and pleasant friend. What if he should gain the affection of Gertie? Heinz! something in the name haunted him. Surely he had heard it before, and in connection with the young violinist. And now was it possible that that beautiful girl was really coming amongst them, and that his own mother might meet her any day? for she was often at the house, not only of the Wardens, but also of their aunt Mary, with whom the girl was coming to stay.

No wonder that during the ride Lily Warden thought Mr. Gower strangely preoccupied and silent. She attributed it all to his disappointment at her sister's absence, and felt vexed that such should be the case, as well she knew that in the way he wished Gertie would never think of Reginald Gower; but she felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up.

Through that long ride, with summer sunshine and summer beauties around him, Reginald saw only one face, and it was not that of Gertie Warden, but that of the young girl whom he had heard play on the violin at the house of the Stanfords at Baden-Baden.

Oh, if he had only had courage then to write home and tell all that he had heard about her! And in vivid colours there rose before his mind all the disgrace that would attach to him when it became known that he knew of the girl's existence and kept silence. The reason of his so doing would be evident to many. And what, oh, what, he was asking himself, would his loved, high-souled mother think of her son? Surely the words of the Bible he heeded so little were true, "The way of transgressors is hard," and his sin was finding him out.

As soon as the first greetings were over, and the party were seated at the lunch-table in Miss Warden's pretty cottage situated on the banks of the Thames, Lily said, "O Aunt Mary, is it true what Gertie has heard—that Miss Drechsler and a beautiful young violinist with a romantic story are coming to visit you? Gertie is so anxious to know all about her, for neither she nor any of us can believe that she can excel Dr. Heinz in violin-playing; and, indeed, you know how beautifully Gertie herself plays, and she often does so now with Dr. Heinz himself."

"Yes, Lily dear, I am glad to say it is all true. I expect both Miss Drechsler and her young protege next week to visit me for a short time, after which they propose to go to the Stanfords at Stanford Hall, who take a great interest in the young violinist—in fact, I believe she lived for three or four years with them, and was educated along with their own daughter.—By the way, Mr. Gower, you must tell your mother that her old friend Miss Drechsler is coming to me, and I hope she will spend a day with me when she is here."

"I am sure she will be delighted to do so, Miss Warden," replied the young man; but even as he spoke his cheek blanched as he thought of all that might come of his mother meeting the young violinist.

Reginald rode back with his friends to their house, but could not be induced to enter again, not even to hear how Gertie had got on with her slumming. "Not to-day," he said; "I find I must go home. I don't doubt your sister has been well employed—more usefully than we mere pleasure-seekers have been," he added, in such a grave tone that Lily turned her head to look at him, as she stood on the door-steps, and inquire if he were quite well. "Quite so, thanks," he replied, in his usual gay tone; "only sometimes one does think there is a resemblance between the lives the butterflies live and ours. Confess it now," he said laughingly; but Lily was in no thoughtful mood just then, so her only reply was,—

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Gower. I have plenty of useful things to do, just as much so as making a guy of myself and going a-slumming, only I am often too lazy to do them," and with a friendly nod she followed her cousin into the house.

Reginald rode slowly homeward, and, contrary to his usual custom, went to his own room to try to collect his thoughts and make out in what form he would deliver Miss Warden's message to his mother. It was very evident to him that the meshes into which his own sins had brought him were tightening around him. Turn which way he liked, there was no escape. At least only one that he could see, and that was, that if the secret came out, and the young violinist of the Black Forest were proved to be the grandchild of the Willoughbys, he should keep silence as to his ever having known anything of the matter.

The more he thought of it, the more that seemed his wisest course; and even if it should come out that he had heard her play, that would tell nothing. Yet his conscience was ill at ease. Suppose he did so, what of his own self-respect? Could he ever regain it? Fortune would be lost, and all ease of mind gone for ever. Then again, if he told his story now, it would only be because he knew that in any case it would be disclosed, and shame would await him.

How could he ever bear the reproaches of his kind friends the Willoughbys, and more than all, the deep grief such a disclosure would cause to his loved mother? In that hour Reginald Gower went through a conflict of mind which left a mark on his character for life. But, alas! once more evil won the day, and he resolved that not yet would he tell all he knew; but some day soon he might. But once again, as he rose to go downstairs, Bible words came into his mind: "To-day, while it is called to-day, harden not your hearts."

O happy mother, to have so carefully stored the young heart with the precious words of God! Long they may be as the seed under ground, apparently forgotten and useless, yet surely one day they will spring up and bear fruit. True even in this application are the words of the poet,—

"The vase in which roses have once been distilled You may break, you may shiver the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will cling to it still."

Well may we thank God for all mothers who carefully teach the words of Holy Scripture to their children.

That day Reginald delivered Miss Warden's message to his mother, but did not mention the young girl who was to accompany her.

"Oh, I will be delighted to see Miss Drechsler again," said his mother. "I liked her so much when she was governess at the Wardens'. We all did; indeed, she was more companion than governess, and indeed was younger than I was, and just about Mary Warden's own age. I remember well going one day with Mrs. Willoughby's daughter, Hilda, to a musical party at the Wardens', and how charmed Miss Drechsler was at the way Hilda played the violin, which was not such a common thing then as it is now."

"The violin?" queried Reginald. "Did Miss Willoughby play on the violin?"

"Oh yes! she was very musical, and that was one of the great attractions to her in the man she married. He, too, was a wonderful violinist—Herr Heinz they called him. He was, I believe, a much-respected man and of good family connections, but poor, and even taught music to gain a livelihood."

"Heinz!" Reginald was repeating to himself. Then he had heard that name before first in connection with the child of the Black Forest; but he only said, "It is curious that I have lately heard that name from the young Wardens, who speak a great deal of a Dr. Heinz. He also is a good violinist. Can he be any relation, do you think, of the one you allude to?"

"Possibly he may; but the name is not at all an uncommon German one. By the way, I heard a report (probably a false one) that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a Dr. Heinz—a very good man, they say. Have you heard anything of it?"

"I never heard she was engaged, nor do I think it is likely; but I have heard both her and her sister speak of this Dr. Heinz, and I know it is only a Christian man that Gertie would marry."

Having said so much, he quickly changed the subject and talked of something else. The mother's eye, however, was quick to notice the shade on his brow as he spoke, and she was confirmed in the opinion she had formed for some time that the very idea of Gertie Warden's engagement was a pain to him. As he rose to go out he turned to say, "Remember, mother, that I have given you Miss Warden's message."



CHAPTER XIII.

IN THE SLUMS.

"In dens of guilt the baby played, Where sin and sin alone was made The law which all around obeyed."

The summer sunshine, of which we have written as glistening among the "leafy tide of greenery," and on the ripening corn-fields and gaily-painted flowers in the country, was penetrating also the close streets of one of the poorest parts of London, cheering some of the hearts of the weary toiling ones there, into whose lives little sunshine ever fell, and for a while, it may be, helping them to forget the misery of their lot, or to some recalling happier days when they dwelt not in a narrow, crowded street, but in a country village home, amidst grassy meadows and leafy trees, feeling, as they thought of these things, though they could not have put the feeling into words, what a poet gone to his rest says so beautifully,—

"That sorrow's crown of sorrow Is remembering happier things."

But the very light that cheered revealed more clearly the misery, dirt, and poverty around.

In one such street, where little pale-faced children, without the merriment and laughter of childhood, played in a languid, unchildlike way, sickness prevailed; for fever had broken out, and indoors suffering ones tossed on beds, if they could be so called, of sickness.

At the door of a small room in one of the houses stood a girl of some ten or eleven years old, looking out anxiously as if in expectation of some one, turning every now and then to address a word to her mother, who lay in the small room on a bed in the corner.

"He baint a-comin' yet," she said, "'cos I knows his step; but he'll be 'long soon—ye see if he don't! I knows as how he will, 'cos he's that kind; so don't ye fret, mother—the doctor 'ill be here in no time. There now! Susan Keats giv' me some tea for ye, and I'll get the water from her and bring you some prime and 'ot—ye see if I don't!" So saying, the child ran off and went into a room next door, and entering begged for some "'ot water." "Ye see," she said, addressing a woman poorly clad like herself, "she be a-frettin', mother is, for the doctor, for she's badly, is mother, to-day, and she thinks mayhap he'll do her good."

When the child returned to her mother's room, she found Dr. Heinz (for it was he) sitting by her mother's side and speaking kindly to her. He turned round as the child entered. "Come along, Gussie," he said; "that's right—been getting mother some tea. You'll need to tend her well, for she's very poorly to-day."

"Ay, ay," muttered the woman, "that's true, that's true. Be kind to Gussie, poor Gussie, when I am gone, doctor. The young lady—Miss Warden be her name—she said she'd look after her, she did."

The doctor bent over the dying woman and said some comforting words, at which the woman's face brightened. "God bless ye," she said, "for promising that. Oh, but life's been weary, weary sin' I came 'ere—work, work, and that not always to be 'ad. But it's true, sir, what ye told me. He says even to the like o' me, 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest;' and He's done it, I think. Ye'll come again, sir, won't ye?"

After a few moments of prayer with the poor woman, and giving her some medicine to allay her restlessness, Dr. Heinz left the room. From house to house in the fever-stricken street he went, ministering alike to body and soul, often feeling cast down and discouraged, overwhelmed at times by the vice and poverty of all around. The gospel had never reached these poor neglected ones. The very need of a Saviour was by the great majority of them unfelt. Love many of them had never experienced. The evil of sin they did not comprehend. Brought up from babyhood in the midst of iniquity, they were strangers to the very meaning of righteousness and virtue. No wonder that the heart of the doctor was oppressed as he went out and in amongst them. Yet he felt assured that by love they could be won to the God of love, and that only the simple gospel of Jesus Christ dying in their room and stead, told in the power of the Holy Ghost, could enlighten their dark souls and prove the true lever to raise them from their sin and misery. And so, whilst alleviating pain, he tried when possible to say a word from the book—God's revealed will, which alone "maketh wise unto salvation." More than once on the day we write of, as he went from house to house, the vision of a young girl whom he had often met going about doing good flitted before his eyes.

Gertie Warden and Dr. Heinz had first met in one of those abodes of wretchedness, where she stood by a bed of sickness trying to comfort and help a dying woman.

Only two years before that and Gertie was just ready to throw herself into the vortex of the gay society in which the other members of her family mingled; but ere she did so the voice of the Holy Ghost spake to her as to so many others, and showed her how true life was only to be found in Christ and lived in Him. Henceforth she lived no longer a life of mere worldliness, but a life spent in the service of Him who had loved her and given Himself for her; and then her greatest joy was found in visiting the poor, the afflicted, the tried—ay, and often the oppressed ones of earth.

In her own family she found great opposition to her new mode of life; but the Lord raised up a kind helpful friend to her in the person of the gentle, sorely-tried Mrs. Willoughby of Harcourt Manor. To her Gertie confided all her difficulties as regarded her district visiting (or, as her sister called it, her slumming), and many a word of sympathy and wise counsel she got from her friend.

One day she spoke of Dr. Heinz.

"You cannot think how much the people love him," she said, "and trust him. 'Ah!' I heard a poor woman say the other day, 'if only all were like him, it's a better world it would be than it's now.' And do you know," she went on, "he is actually interesting my father and Aunt Mary in some of his poor patients. And he likes to come to our house sometimes in the evenings and play on the violin along with us; and he does play beautifully. I wish you knew him, dear Mrs. Willoughby, for I know you would like him. But, dear friend, are you not well?"

For at the name of Heinz a deadly faintness had overcome Mrs. Willoughby. Was not that the name of her daughter's husband? and if he should prove to be in any way related to him, might he not be able to give some information regarding her loved one? But she composed herself, and in answer to Gertie's question she replied,—

"It is nothing, dear, only a passing weakness. I am all right now. Tell me something more of this Dr. Heinz and the Christian work he is engaged in. He must be a German, I fancy, from his name."

"Yes, he is," replied Gertie; "he was speaking to me lately about his relations. He was born in Germany, and lived there till he was a boy of seven years old. Then his parents died, and he came to this country with an older brother who was a wonderful violinist, and he taught him to play; but many years ago this brother married and returned to Germany, leaving him here in the charge of some kind friends; and though at first he heard from him from time to time, he has ceased to write to him for some years, and he fears he is dead. He knows he had a child, for his last letter mentioned her, but he knows nothing more."

Again that terrible pallor overcame Mrs. Willoughby, but this time she rose and said in an excited tone,—

"I must see this Dr. Heinz. Could you bring him to see me, Gertie, and soon? Say to him that I think, although I am not sure, that I knew a relation of his some years ago."

"Oh yes, Mrs. Willoughby; I will gladly ask him to come and see you. Indeed, I was just going to ask if you would allow him to call—" Here the girl hesitated a moment, then said, "You see, it was only last night, but I am engaged to be married to Dr. Heinz, and do wish you to know and love him for my sake."

Love one of the name of Heinz! Could she do so, the gentle lady was asking herself. What if he should prove to be the brother of the man who had caused her such bitter sorrow? But at that moment there rose to her remembrance the words of Scripture, said by Him who suffered from the hand of man as never man suffered, "Forgive, as ye would be forgiven," and who illustrated that forgiveness on the cross when He prayed for His deadly enemies, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." The momentary struggle was over. Mrs. Willoughby raised her head, and said in a calm, quiet tone,—

"God bless you, Gertie; and may your union be a very happy one. I should like to see Dr. Heinz."

And so it came to pass that ere many days had elapsed, Dr. Heinz was ushered into Mrs. Willoughby's drawing-room in the London house which they had taken for the season. He was hardly seated before she said,—

"Yes, oh yes—there can be no mistake—you certainly are the brother of the man who married my daughter. Tell me, oh tell me," she added, "what you know of her and of him!"

Dr. Heinz was strongly moved as he looked on the face of the agitated mother.

"Alas!" he said, "I grieve to say I can tell you nothing. I have not heard for several years from my brother, and at times I fear he must be dead. My poor brother, how I loved him! for, Mrs. Willoughby, a gentler or more kind-hearted man never lived. You may be sure, however much your daughter was to blame in marrying any one against her parents' wishes, she found in my brother a truly loving, kind husband."

"Thank God for that!" she replied. "But now tell me, was there a child? Gertie spoke as if you knew there was one."

"Certainly there was. In the last letter I had from my brother, he spoke of the great comfort their little girl (who was the image of her mother) was to them—his little Frida he called her, and at that time she was three or four years old. Oh yes, there was a child. Would that I could give you more particulars! but I cannot; only I must mention that he said, 'I am far from strong, and my beloved wife is very delicate.'"

"Ah," said the mother, "she was never robust; and who knows what a life of hardship she may have had to live! O Hilda, Hilda! Dr. Heinz, is there no means by which we may find out their whereabouts? I have lately had some advertisements put into various papers, praying them to let us know where they are; but no answer has come, and now I am losing all hope."

"Would that I could comfort you!" he said; "but I also fear much that we have lost the clue to their whereabouts. I will not cease to do all I can to trace them; but, dear Mrs. Willoughby, we believe that there is One who knows all, whose eyes are everywhere, and we can trust them to Him. If I should in any way hear of our friends, you may be sure I shall not be long of communicating with you. In the meantime it has been a great pleasure to me to have made the acquaintance of one whom my dear Gertrude has often spoken to me of as her kindest of friends."

Then Dr. Heinz told of the work in which he was engaged amongst the poor, sorrowful, and also too often sinful ones, in the East End of London.

Before Dr. Heinz left, Mrs. Willoughby showed him the little brown English Bible which her daughter had given to her not long before her marriage, and told him about the German one, which looked exactly the same outwardly, which she had given to her daughter.

"Strange," said Dr. Heinz, as he held the little brown book in his hand, "that in the last letter I ever received from my brother, he told me of the blessing which he had got through reading God's Word in a brown Bible belonging to his wife, adding that she also had obtained blessing through reading it."

"Praise God!" said Mrs. Willoughby; "then my prayers have been answered, that Hilda, like her mother, might be brought to the knowledge of God. Now I know that if we meet no more on earth we shall meet one day in heaven.—I thank Thee, O my God!"

It was with a heart full of emotion that Dr. Heinz found himself leaving Mrs. Willoughby's house. Oh, how he longed that he could hear tidings of his brother and his wife, and so be able to convey comfort to the heart of the sorrowful lady he had just left!

As he was walking along, lost in thought, he came suddenly face to face with Reginald Gower, whom he had lately met several times at the Wardens', and to whom he suspected the news of his engagement to Gertrude Warden would bring no pleasure; but from the greeting which Reginald gave him he could not tell whether or not he knew of the circumstance.

He accosted him with the words: "What are you doing, doctor, in this part of the town? I thought it was only in the narrow, dirty slums, and not in the fashionable part of the west of London, that you were to be found; and that it was only the sick and sorrowful, not the gay, merry inhabitants of Belgravia that you visited."

"Do you think then," replied Dr. Heinz, "that the sick, sad, and sorrowful are only to be found in the narrow, dark streets of London? What if I were to tell you that although there is not poverty, there are sorrowful, sad, unsatisfied hearts to be found in as great numbers in these fashionable squares and terraces as in the places you speak of; and that the votaries of fashion, whom you style gay and merry, are too often the most wretched of mankind, and that beneath the robes of silk and satin of fashionable life there beats many a breaking heart? You see that splendid square I have just left. Well, in one of the handsomest houses there dwells one of the sweetest Christian ladies I have ever met. She has everything that wealth and the love of friends can give her, yet I believe she is slowly dying of a broken heart, longing to know if a dearly-loved daughter, who made a marriage which her parents did not approve of, years ago, is still alive; and no one can tell her whether she or any child of hers still survives. I know all the circumstances, and would give a great deal to be able to help her. He would be a man to be envied who could go to that sweet mother, Mrs. Willoughby, and say, I can tell you all about your daughter, or, if she is not alive, of her child. O Reginald Gower, never say that there are not sad hearts in the west part of London, though you may see only the smiling face and dry eyes. You remember the words of the gifted poetess,—

'Go weep with those who weep, you say, Ye fools! I bid you pass them by, Go, weep with those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry.'

But I must go. Have you not a word of congratulation for me, Reginald?"

"Why?" was the amazed reply; "and for what?"

"Oh," said Dr. Heinz, somewhat taken aback, "do you not know that I am engaged to be married to Gertrude Warden?"

"You are?" was the reply, with a look of amazement that Dr. Heinz could not fail to notice; "well, I rather think you are a lucky fellow. But"—and a look of deep sorrow crossed his face as he spoke—"I do believe you are worthy of her. Tell her I said so. And would you mind saying good-bye to her and her sister from me, as I may not be able to see them before starting for America, which I shall probably do in a week; and should you again see the Mrs. Willoughby you have been speaking of, and whom I know well, please tell her I could not get to say farewell to her, as my going off is a sudden idea. Good-bye, Dr. Heinz. May you and Miss Gertrude Warden be as happy as you both deserve to be;" and without another word he turned away.

Dr. Heinz looked after him for a moment, then shook his head somewhat sadly, saying to himself, "There goes a fine fellow, if only he had learned of Him 'who pleased not himself.' Reginald is a spoiled character, by reason of self-pleasing. I must ask Gertrude how he comes to know Mrs. Willoughby, and why he is going off so suddenly to America, although I may have my suspicions as to the reason for his so doing."



CHAPTER XIV.

THE OLD NURSE.

"It chanced, eternal God, that chance did guide."

"How are you getting on with your packing, Frida?" said Miss Drechsler, as the girl, wearing a loose morning-dress, looked into the room where her friend was sitting.

"Oh, very well," was the answer; "I have nearly finished. When did you say the man would come for the trunks?"

"I expect him in about an hour. But see, here comes the post; look if there is one for me from Miss Warden. I thought I would get one to tell me if any of her friends would meet us at Dover."

Frida ran off to meet the postman at the door, and returned in triumph, bearing two letters in her hand.

"One for you, auntie" (she always now addressed Miss Drechsler by that name), "and one for myself. Mine is from Ada Stanford, and yours, I am sure, is the one you are expecting."

A few minutes of silence was broken by Frida exclaiming,—

"O auntie, Ada has been very ill again, and is still very weak, and she asks, as a great favour, that I would come to visit them before going to the Wardens; and adds, 'If Miss Drechsler would accompany you, we would be so delighted; but in any case,' she writes to me, 'you would not lose your London visit, as my doctor wishes me to see a London physician as soon as I can be moved, specially as to settling whether or not I should go abroad again next winter. So in perhaps another month we may go to London, and then you can either remain with us or join your friend at Miss Warden's.'"

"What do you think about it, auntie? Of course it is a great disappointment to me not to go with you; but do I not owe it to the Stanfords to go to them when I may be of use during Ada's convalescence?"

Miss Drechsler looked, as she felt, disappointed, she had anticipated so much pleasure in having Frida with her in London; but after a few minutes' thought she said, "You are right, Frida: you must, I fear, go first to the Stanfords. We cannot forget all that they have done for you, and as they seem to be so anxious for you to go there, I think you must yield to their wishes; but I must go at once to Miss Warden, who is expecting me. You had better write at once and tell them we hope to be at Dover in four days. They live, as you know, not so far from there. I think that the train will take you to the station, not above a couple of miles from Stanford Hall, where I doubt not they will meet you; but I must write at once and let Miss Warden know that you cannot accompany me, and the reason why, though I hope that erelong, if convenient to her, you may join me there. Ah, Frida! 'man's heart deviseth his way: but God directeth his steps.'"

And so it came to pass that Miss Drechsler arrived alone at Miss Warden's, whilst Frida went to Stanford Hall.

When it became known in the Forest that the woodland child, as they still called her, was again about to leave them for some undefined time, there was great lamentation.

"How then are we to get on without you?" they said. "Ach! shall we have to do without the reading of the book again? True, Hans Hoerstel reads it well enough; but what of that? He too has left us. Ach! it is plain no one cares for the poor wood-cutters and charcoal-burners who live in the Forest, and some grand English gentleman will be getting our woodland child for a wife, and she will return to us no more."

But Frida only laughed at these lamentations. "Why, what nonsense you speak!" she said. "It is only for a little while that I am going away. I hope to come back in about three months. And many of you can now read the Bible for yourselves. And as to the grand gentleman, that is all fancy; I want no grand gentleman for a husband. The only thing that would detain me in England would be if any of my relations were to find me out and claim me; but if that were to be the case, I am sure none of my friends in the Forest would grudge their child to her own people, and they may be assured she would never forget them, and would not be long in revisiting them."

"Ach! if the child were to find her own friends, her father or her mother's people, that would be altogether a different matter," they said simultaneously. "We would then say, 'Stay, woodland child, and be happy with those who have a right to you; but oh, remember the poor wood-cutters and workers in the Forest, who will weary for a sight of the face of the fair girl found by one of them in the Black Forest.'"

Very hearty was the welcome which awaited Frida at Stanford Hall. Ada received her with open arms.

"Ah, Frida, how glad I am to see you once again; and how good of you to give up the pleasure of a month in London to come to see and comfort us!—You will see how quickly I will get well now, mother.—And erelong, Frida, we shall take you to London ourselves, and father will show you all the wonders there."

Frida answered merrily, but she felt much shocked to see how delicate-looking Ada had become.

The girls had much to tell each other of all that had happened since last they met; and when dinner was over, and Frida went to see Ada as she lay on her couch in her prettily-fitted-up boudoir, Ada roused herself to have, as she said, "a right down delightful chat."

"See, Frida, here is a charming easy-chair for you; please bring it quite close to my couch, and now tell me all about your Forest friends. How are Elsie and Wilhelm, and their little Gretchen and Hans? But, indeed, I believe I know more about them than you do; for only two days ago my father received a letter from Hans's music-teacher in Leipsic, giving him unqualified praise, and predicting a successful musical career for him."

"Oh, I am glad!" said Frida. "How pleased his parents will be, and how grateful to Sir Richard Stanford for all he has done for him!"

And so in pleasant talk the evening of the first day of Frida's visit to Stanford Hall drew to a close. As time passed on, Ada's health rapidly improved, and together the girls went about the beautiful grounds belonging to the Hall—Ada at first drawn in an invalid chair, and Frida walking by her side. But by-and-by Ada was able to walk, and together the girls visited in some of the cottages near the Hall—Frida finding out that Ada in her English home was conveying comfort and blessing to many weary souls by reading to them from her English Bible the words of life, even as she had done from her German one in the huts of the wood-cutters, carters, and charcoal-burners in the Black Forest.

"Have you heard, Ada," said Lady Stanford one morning at breakfast, "that the old woman who has lately come to the pretty picturesque cottage at the Glen is very ill? I wish you and Frida would go and see her, and take her some beef-tea and jelly which the housekeeper will give you. I understand she requires nourishing food; and try and discover if there is anything else she requires."

"Certainly, mother," answered Ada; "we will go at once and see what can be done for her.—That Glen is a lovely spot, Frida, and you have never been there. What say you—shall we set off at once? The poor woman is very old, and her memory is a good deal affected."

"I shall be pleased to go, Ada; but I have a letter from Miss Drechsler, received this morning, which I must answer by the first post. She tells me that her friend Miss Warden is in great distress about the illness of a friend of hers. She wishes to know how soon I can join her in London; and now that you are so well, Ada, I really think I ought to go."

"Ah, well," said Ada with a laugh, "time enough to think of that, Frida. We are not prepared to part with you yet; but seriously, mother talks of carrying us all off to London by another fortnight, and that must suffice you. But after you have written your letter we will set off to the Glen."

It was a lovely walk that the girls took that summer day through green lanes and flowery meadows, till they came to a beautiful glen overshadowed with trees in their fresh summer foliage of greenery, through which the sunbeams found their way and touched with golden light the green velvety moss and pretty little woodland flowers which so richly carpeted the ground.

"How beautiful it is here!" said Frida, "and yet how unlike the sombre appearance of the trees in the dear Black Forest!"

"Ah," said Ada, "that Forest, where I do believe your heart still is, Frida, always seemed to me to be so gloomy and dark, so unlike our lovely English woods with their 'leafy tide of greenery.'"

As they spoke they neared the cottage where dwelt the old woman they were going to see. It was thatch-covered and low, but up the walls grew roses and ivy, which gave it a bower-like appearance.

"She is a strange old woman," said Ada, "who has only lately come here, and no one seems to know much about her. A grandchild of fourteen or fifteen years old lives with and takes care of her. Her memory is much impaired, but she often talks as if she had friends who if they knew where she lived and how ill-off she was would help her; but when questioned as to their name, she shakes her head and says she can't remember it, but if she could only see the young lady she would know her. They fancy the friends she speaks of must have been the family with whom she lived as nurse, for her grandchild says she used often to speak of having had the charge of a little girl to whom she was evidently much attached. But here we are, Frida, and yonder is little Maggie standing at the door."

When they entered the room, Frida was amazed to see how small it was and how dark; for the ivy, which from the outside looked so picturesque, darkened the room considerably. Ada, who had seen the old woman before, went forward to the bed where she lay and spoke some kind words to her. The old woman seemed as if she hardly understood, and gave no answer.

"Ah, madam," said the grandchild, "she knows nothing to-day, and when she speaks it is only nonsense."

Frida now came forward and laid her hand kindly on the poor woman, addressing a few words of sympathy to her. The invalid raised her eyes and looked around her, giving first of all a look of recognition to Ada, and holding out her thin hand to her, but her eyes sought evidently to distinguish the face of the stranger who had last spoken. "She knows," explained Maggie, "yours is a strange voice, and wishes to see you, which she can't do, miss, for you are standing so much in the shade."

Frida moved so that the glimmer of light which entered the little room fell on her face. As she did so, and the old woman caught a glimpse of her, a look of joy lit up the faded face, and she said in a distinct voice: "'Bless the Lord, O my soul;' my dear has come to see me. Oh, but I am glad! It's a long time since I saw you, Miss Hilda—a long, long time. I thought you were dead, or you would never have forgotten your old nurse you loved so dearly; but now you've come, my lamb, and old nurse can die in peace." And seizing Frida's hand, the old woman lay back as if at rest, and said no more.

Frida was startled, and turning to her friend, said, "O Ada, whom does she take me for? Can it be that she knew my mother, whose name was Hilda, and that she takes me for her? Miss Drechsler says I am strikingly like the picture I have of her. Perhaps she can tell me where my mother lived, and if any of her relations are still alive;" and bending over the bed, she said in a low tone, "Who was Hilda, and where did she live? Perhaps she was my mother, but she is dead."

The old woman muttered to herself, but looked up no more, "Dead, dead; yes, every one I loved is dead. But not Miss Hilda; you are she, and you have come to see your old nurse. But listen, Miss Hilda: there is the master calling on us to go in, and you know we must not keep the master waiting for even a minute;" and then the old woman spoke only of things and people of whom no one in the room knew anything. But through all Frida distinctly heard the words, "Oh, if only you had never played on that instrument, then he would never have come to the house. O Miss Hilda, why did you go away and break the heart of your mother, and old nurse's also? Oh, woe's the day! oh, woe's the day!"

"Was his name Heinz?" asked Frida in a trembling voice.

"Oh yes, Heinz, Heinz. O Miss Hilda, Miss Hilda, why did you do it?" and then the old woman burst out crying bitterly.

"O miss, can you sing?" said Maggie, coming forward; "for nothing quiets grandmother like singing."

"Yes, I can," replied Frida.—"And you, I am sure, Ada, will help me. I know now the woman, whoever she is, knows all about my mother."

Together the two young girls sang the hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my soul."

As they sang the dying woman became quieter, her muttering ceased, and presently she fell into a quiet sleep; the last words she uttered before doing so were, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." Much moved in spirit, Frida quitted the house; she felt as if now she stood on the verge of discovering the name and relations of her mother. She and Ada hastened their return home to confide to Lady Stanford all that had passed. She was much interested, and, as Sir Richard entered the room just then, she repeated the story to him. He listened eagerly, and said he would at once find out all he could about the woman and her friends; and so saying he left the house.

He returned home cast down and discouraged. The woman had become quite delirious, and the names of Hilda and Heinz were often on her lips, but he could, of course, get nothing out of her. The grandchild could tell nothing of her former life; she never remembered hearing where she had been nurse, but her father, who was now in Canada, might know. Sir Richard could write and ask him. She had his address, and sometimes got letters from him. The doctor said he did not think that grandmother would live over the night. The only thing that had quieted her was the singing of the young lady whom she had called Miss Hilda, and who had come to the cottage that day with Miss Stanford. Maybe if she could come again and sing grandmother would be quieter.

On hearing this Frida rose, and said if Lady Stanford would allow her, she would go and remain all night with the old woman, who she felt sure must have been her mother's nurse. She often, she said, watched a night by dying beds in the Black Forest, and had comforted some on their death-beds by reading to them portions of God's Word.

The Stanfords could not refuse her request; and when Lady Stanford had herself filled a basket with provisions for Frida herself and little Maggie, the girl set off, accompanied by Sir Richard, who went with her to the door of the cottage.

Finding the poor woman still delirious, Frida took off her cloak and bonnet and prepared to spend the night with her, and sitting down beside the bed she once more began to sing some sweet gospel hymns. In low and gentle tones she sang of Jesus and His love, and again the sufferer's restlessness and moaning ceased, and she seemed soothed.

Hours passed, and the early summer morn began to dawn, and still the old woman lived on. Every now and then she muttered the name of Miss Hilda, and once she seemed to be imploring her not to vex her mother; and more than once she said the name of Heinz, and whenever she did so she became more excited, and moaned out the words, "Woe's me! woe's me!" Frida watched anxiously every word, in the hope that she might hear the name of Hilda's mother or the place where they lived; but she watched in vain. It was evident that though there was a look of returning consciousness, life was fast ebbing. A glance upward seemed to indicate that the dying woman's thoughts had turned heavenward. Frida opened her Bible and read aloud the words of the "shepherd psalm," so precious to many a dying soul, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me."

To her amazement the sick woman repeated the words, "thou art with me;" and as she finished the last word the soul fled, and Frida and Maggie were alone with the dead. The story of Frida's birth was still undisclosed, but God's word, as recorded in Holy Scripture, had again brought peace to a dying soul. Neighbours came in, and Frida turned away from the death-bed with a heart full of gratitude to the Lord that she had been allowed with His own words to soothe and comfort the old nurse, who she felt sure had tended and loved her own mother.

When she returned to the Hall, the Stanfords were truly grieved to hear that the old woman was dead, and that there had been no further revelation regarding Frida's relations. Lady Stanford and Ada had just persuaded Frida to go to bed and rest awhile after her night of watching, when the door opened, and the butler came in bearing a telegram to Miss Heinz. Frida opened it with trembling hands, saw it was from Miss Drechsler, and read the words, "Come at once; you are needed here."

What could it mean? Was Miss Drechsler ill? It looked like it, for who else would require her in London? Fatigue was forgotten; she could rest, she said, in the train; she must go at once. In a couple of hours she could start. Ada was disconsolate. Nevertheless, feeling the urgency of the case, she assisted her friend to pack her boxes; and erelong Frida was off, all unaware of what might be awaiting her in the great city. But ere we can tell that, we must turn for a while to other scenes, and write of others closely linked, although unknown to herself, with the life and future of the child found in the Black Forest.



CHAPTER XV.

THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE.

"Being convicted by their own conscience."

The day on which Reginald Gower met Dr. Heinz on the street, and sent through him a farewell message to Gertrude Warden, found him a couple of hours afterwards seated in his mother's boudoir, communicating to her his suddenly-formed plan of starting in a few days for America.

It was no easy thing to do. The bond between mother and son was a very strong one, and her pleasure in having had him with her for some little time had been great. Her look of pleasure when he entered the room made it more difficult for him to break the news to her.

"Earlier back to-day than usual, Reggie," she said, "but never too early for your old mother. But is anything amiss?" she said in a voice of alarm, as she noticed the grave look on his face. "Have you heard any bad news, or are you ill?"

"No, mother, it is neither of these things—there is nothing the matter; only I fear, mother dear, that what I am going to say will vex you, but you must not let it do so. I am not worth all the affection you lavish on me. Mother, I have made up my mind to go to America, and to remain there for some time. I cannot stop here any longer. I am tired—not of my dear mother," he said, as he stooped over her and kissed her fondly, "but of the idle life I lead here; and so I mean to go and try and get work there, perhaps buy land if I can afford it, and see if I can make anything of my life as a farmer. Nay, mother, do not look so sad," he pleaded; "you do not know how hard it is for me to come to this resolution, but I must go. I cannot continue to live on future prospects of wealth that may—nay, perhaps ought never to be mine, but must act the man—try and earn my own living."